


never going home

by idiots_with_an_idea



Category: No Fandom
Genre: A+ Parenting, Gay, Gods, HOW DO YOU TAG THINGS, M/M, Magic, No Beta, Original Characters - Freeform, Royalty, but hey!! representation, but it's here just in case, but not properly, but there's three of us writing this so we kinda beta each other's work, don't have expectations, enemies to lovers kinda, honestly kinda just a way to knock off steam, kind of, look jacob isn't as bad as he seems okAY, slowburn, this will update as we update the story, tw: abuse, tw: death mentions, tw: gore mentions, we'll see, you can already see where this story is going it's predictable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-01-02 08:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiots_with_an_idea/pseuds/idiots_with_an_idea
Summary: Monday: preparing for the royal annual ball.Thursday: thrown in prison with a commoner and a particularly suspicious guard.Sunday: on the run, far, far from the kingdom of Rosalynn. Well, as far as he can get with an almost broken cane and a girl with a more than almost broken leg.Prince Jacob's week, so far, has been... interesting, to say the least. He's been accused of committing a murder with the very helpful accomplice of someone he's never met, he's got to figure out how to prove himself innocent (he's never been on the receiving end of his father's policy 'guilty until proven innocent', and he really isn't enjoying it), and now he's wanted for treason in over thirty different kingdoms and states.Oh, and there's a cute boy.Of course.





	1. jacob: some princes don't become kings

**Author's Note:**

> there's three of us writing this, one for each character, so the writing will be slightly different for each. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- rhys

_Why does it matter if we cannot forgive people? They fight our battles and grow our food, so why do they care? Gods Alive, does it really matter if one of them goes missing every once in a while? No one really cares about them. They are nobodies. Just like me._  
  
I rehearse my speech quietly, mouthing the words to myself. Taking out a pencil, I scribble in the word peasant on the now crumpled paper. It would help if everyone knew what I was talking about. The filthy peasants that live on our property. And if the lords and ladies - all in glowing jewels and expensive clothes - had the same opinion, that would be great too. And if they did not, I could always punish them. I am the prince. I can get away with everything. After a moment, I cross out the last sentence. My father already has enough to deal with without worrying about his only heir’s self-esteem. I sigh and look at the mirror, adjusting my tailored suit for the ball.  
  
Silk and velvet.  
  
A costume, a façade fit for a <strike>false</strike> king.  
  
Turning around, I look at mirror, with fake gold rimming the edges. I smile, the ends of my teeth not quite smooth, more vampiric, really. I hate that. I always cut my tongue on the sharp edges. I hate that father made my teeth get sharpened when I tripped and fell one day. The memory is blurry, but I could remember the look in father’s eyes, before they turned cold and unforgiving. _This is your punishment. Kings should be tough. Everyone should be afraid of you._ At that point, I never really understood what it meant to be tough, too young at the time, and foolish as well. Swelled up with compassion and not knowing right from wrong. If only the people knew who I really was. But then I would be even more of a disgrace, not just the cripple prince with secrets to hide. Because I hate a lot of other things about myself, like how I would rather not date-  
  
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door being thrown open.  
  
“Your Highness, I need to talk to you about tonight.” The guard stands at the door respectfully, waiting for his orders. I watch him without really looking at him. Young and impressionable. Blonde with grey eyes. Posture is shaky. A slight tremble in his voice. I keep mumbling to myself, sweet nothings, really, and pretend I do not hear. I am nice like that. Finally, I turn and put on a fake smile.  
  
“I did not notice you there, knight. And you should not have come in here without knocking first! Go on, go outside and try again.” I grin at the knowledge that nobody can touch me, that everyone will obey me one day, including my father and mother. I will be treated unfairly no more. The shuffle of the knight’s footsteps and a small click as the door shuts. Another knock, twice now. I clap my hands, delicate and smooth. More special than commoners, but still tainted.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
I snap back around to the guard and wipe the scowl off my face. I was not a sir, I was a future king. “Oh yes, yes of course.” I collapse on my couch, which looks grand, made of pure chinchilla, but in reality, is very uncomfortable. My back aches, but I ignore it, righting my posture to look as kingly as possible.  
  
“About tonight…”  
  
I make a vague gesture, hoping a replaceable fool like him knows he can continue.  
  
“The Prince of Harenae cannot come to the ball.”  
  
I remember meeting the Prince in my childhood. While they were pleasant company, I felt removed from them, mainly due to the standards imposed on me by my father. I would have liked to see them again tonight, however, as they would be one of the only guests my age, and now that they are older, they will have had more expectations set by their father. I thought maybe we would be able to find a larger middle ground between us tonight.  
  
“Oh really? Why not? It is such a shame they cannot come tonight. It will be a wonderful celebration of our victory over the Veteres Kingdom.”  
  
“They are dead, sir. We found them in the river an hour ago.”  
  
Dead.  
  
My annoyance is immediately replaced with a mixture of sadness and confusion as I register what the knight said. Emotions churn through me, replacing anything I have ever been taught. I feel like pure nothing, someone who is only there to feel pain. I swallow hard. I can feel the nerves radiating off the guard, his hands twisting together and shoulders hunched into his chest.  
  
“Can I- may I see them?”  
  
The guard’s breathing begins to speed up. “Uh, if you could follow me, sir.”  
  
When he turns around, I lean for my cane, so I can then struggle onto my own two feet. Deeply inhaling, I reorganise my thoughts, then take one last look at my room and shut the door. Carvings of the Gods and magicians swirl in my head, suddenly look more demonic than when I first entered this room all those years ago. I look at the guard and follow him down the corridor.

* * *

Rosalynn castle is once a rotting shell of a place that had once been filled with laughter and joy. That was before the war with the Veteres Kingdom, a war that had shocked the four other kingdoms. Rosalynn, Harenae, Helfrost and Winfire had taken quite a while to overcome the smallest, the puniest kingdom of them all. But that was before the relica, a magical healing artefact that harnessed the power of the Gods and almost destroyed us. The artefact is now missing, which is a shame. It would certainly help mother. But the war is over now, and the five-year anniversary is today. To make it even grander, four years ago, the peasants had finally finished this godsforsaken structure. Now it towers over the city of Rosalynn, a bright and colourful place that was full of filthy thieves that deserve execution.  
  
As the guard and I walk past the great hall, I catch a glimpse at the five Gods.  
  
Gini, the Goddess of fire, the scariest one of them all, a being that once could snap her fingers and have entire cities burn. She wears flowing robes, drifting over her body like fire, hair swarming around her.  
  
Jalaya, God of water, a calm wave in the storm, our balance in the world. Tip too much one way, and everything you know will wash away, never to be seen again. Jalaya wears a long coat that resembles a waterfall.  
  
Sulanga, the wind Goddess, that can help create and destroy, can chill or warm a lonely heart, and is an unwavering presence. She is designed on the stained glass like an outline, a being drifting away from the mortal world.  
  
Polove, the God of Earth, a being of unknown destruction. I have witnessed those be destroyed by his might, or the earth they live on flourish with life. He has no human form, but father says he is made of gems and stone, unable to be harmed.  
  
And the strangest one of all, Alu. A mystery. No person knows who or what this being does, and any that search for them die. Alu was almost unheard of until a few years ago when I was twelve. First, rumours about a monster, then reports of shadows in the night taking and changing the good to evil and vice-versa. But we adopted Alu into our culture and now we cower beneath their might. Or at least other, lesser people than me do.  
  
As we approach the drawbridge and follow the rocky ground to the river, my footing gets shakier and I struggle to keep upright on the bumpy, shifting path. I track my footing, keeping my steps to the smoothest parts of the ground. Speckled rocks, dying patches of grass, vibrant red earth. I slow down and pretend to admire the scenery. I want to show I am not a weak prince, that I can walk myself without assistance. Honestly, the view from here is quite nice. Mountains teeming with vegetation, the loud screeches of birds. We approach the river, where the once clear water is stained with crimson, blooming over with a magnificent pattern, swirling in the depths.  
  
I peer over and almost slide down the sand, where several men are attempting to haul a figure – a teen with a long dark hair clinging onto their head – out of a sewage pipe. They struggle, the body too heavy for men washed down and weakened by war. I look at the body, my head telling me to look away, look away, but my heart aches at the death of a former friend. A dead body that was once alive, a human with a beating heart, a charming smile, delicate handwriting, kindness bleeding through them in and out in and out -  
  
My posture shifts, and I stand tall and princely. Father’s voice echoes like beating drums in my head.  
  
_ Be a good son and you will make a good king._  
  
_ Try hard and you can accomplish anything._  
  
_ You are so much smarter than I was._  
  
But then I remember the other side of father, the part of him that would shout at me for not being able to calculate how much tax someone owes, not being able to shoot an arrow, fight or do anything princes should. A perfect prince. What I was supposed to be, before everything happened. My memory snaps into place, and so many hurtful words swim through my head. Never shouting but there anyway, having no idea what a few sentences did to me.  
  
_You are a failure. How are you my son with that sloppy stance._  
  
_ Gods, a peasant could do this work._  
  
_ You will never amount to anything. This kingdom will collapse with you._  
  
My father always finds time for me, good or bad. He is always scaring me, what compassion there when I was little burned away as kingdom duties replaced the importance of his only child and heir. I want to forget everything. I look away, my insides feeling like they have been scorched through with acid. I turn my gaze back to the guard.  
  
“You must know what happened to them.”  
  
“No sir, but multiple stab wounds, burns on the head and water bloating. They seem to be dead for at least a month, which is unfortunate as they were floating in the canal whole time. Makes identifying the body a bit hard. However, the Harenae kingdom sent out a message about three weeks ago, saying the Prince had gone missing, in the exact clothes the body’s wearing. The timing and description can’t just be coincidences.”  
  
I should not be talking to a common guard like this, but my desire to know everything kicks through courtesies.  
  
“Were they murdered?”  
  
The guard seems more confident now, or maybe that is because he is in my presence. “It would appear so. They may have been doused in oil, set aflame and stabbed.”  
  
“Why are they in the water?” I question. I fold both hands above my cane, waiting for a response.  
  
“Trying to get away or forcefully drowned.”  
  
I look at the sky, trying to dissolve the image of Damien being stabbed, burned and drowned, three things that I would never want to happen. I would not even be able to run away, and I call myself a prince! But instead, I see my father looking out his window, a frown seemingly etched on his face. I stare, transfixed, my father weary but still handsome, even after negotiating treaties, fighting battles, dealing with me. He points at me and motions to his wrist, the movement so concealed and fast that I almost miss it, my judgment and vision clouded from emotion.  
  
And then I realise, I need to meet him in the clock tower.

* * *

I stand at the bottom of the two hundred steps of the clock tower. Closing my eyes, I remember how it gave me nightmares as a child, as in the night, I felt like it was watching me. The loud ticks kept me awake, making me sloppy and unfocused, when my father was the worst to me.  
Forcing my eyes back open, I see two silhouettes, outlined by the sun so they look like angels, they themselves shrouded in darkness but the area around them teeming brilliantly with light. I begin the long, uneven climb to the top, a seemingly endless staircase. The sound of my cane and footsteps vibrating on the stone, accompanied by the constant swirling pattern of the stairs makes it strangely hypnotic. I lose my trail of thought, but focus once again as I reach the top of the clock tower. The creaky wooden floorboards are beginning to rot, and more than once my cane is not able to find a secure ground. The stranger is dressed in black from head to toe, a stark contrast from the pale wood and stone this place is made of. They hold eye contact with me, and I look away, the heat of their gaze making me uncomfortable.  
  
“Finally, the young prince is here.” The stranger’s voice is weird, a sound not meant to be heard in such a peaceful room. My father smiles at him, a genuine happiness radiating out of him.  
  
“Jacob,” my father begins. “This is Sommerville, your bodyguard.” _Oh Gods. Just when I thought everything could not get worse._  
  
“A- a bodyguard? I do not need a bodyguard.” I stammer, struggling to get the words out.  
  
“Yes well, you are my only heir, and when the Veteres realise that killing you would mean my lineage will end, you need someone to protect you.” I wonder I father is protecting the world from me, and not me from the world.  
  
“I gu- guess so.” I head to go back down the stairs but my father interrupts me, pretending to pull me in for a hug.

He is gripping me too tightly, and I am more frightened when he whispers, “You ever do something to him, and I will rip your life apart.” He laughs heartily, putting on a false expression for the rest of the world. I descend the clock tower. We walk down in silence, the only sound gentle footsteps and the ever-present click-clack sound of my cane. I get down to the bottom, and I see at least five guards struggling to apprehend a girl. She is screaming, her shrill cries are filling the air.

“I didn’t do it! I swear! Let me go!” She kicks at them, biting and scratching, tearing at their exposed skin. I am still walking, almost out of earshot when I hear, “I’ve never even met the prince!” Her wails grind to a stop. One of the guards has managed to knock her unconscious with the pommel of his sword, sending her small body tumbling to the ground. Blood is everywhere, there are teeth marks on the guards and several long, swelled scratches from where she tore at their skin. Disgusting guards, and the girl too. Are peasants really that stupid, dumb enough to fight back? And the guards, they took so long to get that dirty thief. But still. The mention of me, the sound of her voice pleading to be let go, makes me wonder what she did.  
  
I feel hands close over my mouth and drag me backward. That is when I realise. Not what she did. What we did. I try to shout, but the world has tipped, altered so everything shows up in black and white, but saturated so I feel like I am going in circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles. I look up and see the face of my supposed ‘bodyguard.’ Then I stop struggling, go limp to see if Sommerville will loosen his grip. He drops me onto the ground. I take my chance and run, snatching up my cane and ignoring the pain that curls around my bones. The uneven, surface I am trying to run on makes me trip, and the cane snaps in half.  
My first thought is: _It feels so much better. You don't have to deal with pain when you're dead_  
  
My second: _Oh no._  
  
Something slams into the side of my head, and I scramble to move, my vision blurring and clearing everywhere I look. I can taste thick, coppery, bitter blood. My ears are echoing the sounds of my thoughts, everything too loud and bright. The shoves and sharp stabs of pain that vibrate through every part of me are on a whole new spectrum of hurt. My hands are trying to block everything but they are beaten raw and bloody, until the simple motion of curling a hand into a fist is too much all at once. All I want to do is close my eyes. So I do.

* * *

I wake up in a prison, briefly. There is a girl, the same girl from before. Her skin is rich and dark, hair braided on top of her head carefully. Her eyes are closed peacefully, but when she wakes up, I know all she will feel is pain. I try to shake her awake, wanting to ask, “why we are here?” and “who are you?” But the small movement makes me feel sick, realising the drowsiness from sleep has worn off and now everything is filled with pain. Blood covers everything, my hands, my clothes and now this girl. I have no idea how many wounds I have, just that the sickly scent of blood is filling my head. My bones ache, and just as she sits up and opens her mouth, the world fades to black, like curtains shutting and pushing the light away, leaving a room pitch-black, ready for the monsters to come and play.


	2. alira: i'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

I stare at the plain wooden wall, my mind automatically drifting back to memories of my father. Playing with him as a child; helping him in the field as a teenager; to now. My eyes grow damp once again as I remember him, remember the peaceful and love-filled times before the war killed my father. He was killed in the war, just before our kingdom won and the enemy was subdued. He had been working out in the field in the late afternoon when the after-effects of a biological weapon used to decimate a nearby city hit out village. Nobody died immediately, but soon the men who had been out at that time began to sicken, their bodies slowly failing. My father died from the radiation poisoning, his skin peeling off and his mind slowly fading. It was torturous to watch.

Now every day is a struggle for food and money, with one of my sisters’ bed-ridden and the other too young to help in the fields. My mother works as hard as she can, but as she was slightly poisoned when my father died I must carry most of the weight on my shoulders. Working in the fields, going to the market in town, cooking and cleaning. I do these jobs dutifully, but when I can I sneak away to the forest, to wander among the animals and the wild. I love to walk among the carefree animals who know nothing of the hardship that us humans must suffer. They only focus on one thing: surviving each passing day. I envy them.

Suddenly, I hear a young voice call out "Alira!" I sit up, startled. My younger sister Isla comes wandering in, her too-big clothes hanging off her skinny frame.

"I'm hungry!" she complains.

I glance out the window and see that the sun is low in the sky. I day-dreamed for too long! I hurry to the tiny kitchen, not even another room, just part of the main room of the house. Our small hut has three rooms only: a bedroom, a main room and a bathroom. The bathroom is nothing more than a pokey little gap with a bucket and a washcloth and a basin. Our bedroom has merely 2 beds, one for my sisters and the other for my mother and me. The main room has the only nice furniture in the house, made by my father when he was well. A beautifully carved rocking chair, and a sturdy wooden table along with some carvings decorating the wall. An illusion of wealth in our poor household.

I take some potatoes and onions that I dug from the cupboard and chuck them into the pot hanging from the wall. I grab the last of the meat from the deer I managed to hunt two days ago with my meagre archery skills and put it in with the vegetables. I grab the rest of the ingredients, then head outside to the fireplace. I make a small pyramid out of kindling and a log, then set it alight with the flint. Soon the smell of deer stew fills the air. I slowly stir the sludgy liquid, the occasional potato or onion floating to the surface then ducking away again, like the soup is playing hide-and-seek. Isla perches beside me, waiting impatiently for her dinner. The smell of food attracts my mother, who hobbles out of the house to the fire.

"Smells good," she croaks, smiling halfheartedly at me. I manage to give her somewhat of a smile back. It's difficult to feel anything other than hunger or worry these days. When the stew is ready, I serve it into three bowls, and give the largest to Isla and Mother. I take the smallest bowl, and the last I bring to the bedroom. I peer into the dark room, a shaft of fading sun the only light in the small room. A humped shape lies on the farthest bed, curled into the corner, shaking softly with tears. Hallie. She does not move as I approach, setting the stew down on the rickety chair next to her. I lean down, and she finally turns her head to look at me, her eyes shiny and damp.

"Nightmare again?" I ask, and she nods. Hallie was affected by Father's death the most. They had always been close, and watching Father slowly rot and waste away was even more horrible to Hallie then the rest of us. She still has nightmares. I stroke her forehead, feeling her fever hot temperature burn my hand with its intensity. I glance down at the crippled leg beneath the thin blanket, caused, again, by radiation poisoning. Many of us in the village were affected by the weapon, which caused permanent injuries and sickness and death. It was contagious at first, but now, after a year, I can treat Hallie's leg without feeling ill afterwards.

Hallie accepts the stew, taking small mouthfuls every so often. I continue to stroke her forehead, even after she finishes the stew. After a while she drifts off to sleep, and I leave.

* * *

Later that night, after Mother and Isla go to bed, I sneak out and wander off into the forest. I know it's unwise to be out in the dark, especially in the forest, but I need to escape my duties as a daughter and sister just for a little while! I bring my bow, just in case. I reach the clearing close to our hut, and sink down on a rock, my bones aching. I wish I didn't have to look after my entire family. I wish my father was still alive. I wish life wasn't so hard.

When the air turns freezing and the light disappears, I head back home.

* * *

The next day, I am working on lunch- vegetables- and Isla is playing next to me with our only toy. Suddenly, there is a knock on the door. Isla goes silent, and I immediately glance up, wary. Nobody ever visits us! We are much too far from the village, and we have no other family that I know of. Suspicious, I keep the chopping knife in my hand as I approach the door. There is another knock, louder than before. Isla whimpers and scurries into the bedroom. My mother peers around her, frowning.

"Who is it?" she asks me quietly, and I shake my head to signal that I don't know. I head to the window to peer out, and glimpse a pair of royal soldiers, waiting impatiently outside. I suck in a breath. Soldiers never bring good news, everybody knows that! They either come to collect taxes or arrest someone. I really hope it is neither of those reasons. I hurry over to the door and timidly open it, peering out nervously.

"Yes?" I ask, trying and failing to sound confident. The larger soldier frowns down at me.

"Is Alira Denver here?" he asks, his loud voice echoing throughout the little hut. I nod. He continues, "We are here to arrest her."

My mouth falls open, and my heart stops for a second. Why would they arrest me? I'd done nothing wrong!

"Why?" I manage to croak out.

The other soldier replies, "She stole a healing relic from the Royal palace. She was seen with the relic outside the palace, and with the murdered victim before he died." I swallow. I'd been framed! I would never steal anything from the King! My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, unable to produce any sound.

My mother appears behind me. "Who are you?" she barks angrily. I turn and shake my head slightly at her, feeling my face pale with every second.

"Where is Alira?" the larger soldier asks impatiently.

I gulp in air desperately, then mumble, "I'm Alira."

The soldiers let out a sound of surprise and shoulder the door open, grabbing me roughly.

"You should have said!" The smaller guard grunts, reaching for a rope out of his belt to tie my hands. Thinking quickly, I shove my knife up my tunic. Just in time. The soldier grabs my hands and ties them tightly, tight enough to hurt.

I squeak, and plead, "I didn't do anything, I swear!"

"You were seen outside the palace with the relic. Don't pretend you're innocent, we know it was you and the prince." the larger soldier scoffs as he shoves me out the door.

My mother had been silent up until that moment. Suddenly she rushed forwards, grabbing me and pulling me backwards. "You can't take her!" she cries, hugging me close. I blink in surprise, then cry out as the soldier pull me back.

"Please! I didn't do it, I swear!" I shout, struggling vainly.

"Get away! Let go of her!" My mother shrieks, clawing at the larger soldier desperately. He turns and kicks her with all his might. I scream as she crumples backwards, thumping to the floor with a horrifying thud. She looks horribly dead, lolled on the floor like a corpse.

"Mother! No!" I sob, desperately trying to get to her. Isla peeks out of the bedroom and lets out a choked sound when she sees Mother. She runs to her, kneeling beside her and hugging her and sobbing.

The smaller soldier lets out a sound of disgust, then says "Stop struggling! Come with us or we will kill your Mother!" I freeze, knowing that they really would. I go limp, and the larger soldier grabs me and shoves me out the door. I trip and crumple to the ground on the doorstep, the chilly air biting my skin. My head thuds on the ground, and black spots dance in my vision.

I moan, struggling to get to my feet. The soldiers grab me and thrust me into the cart parked outside the hut, not caring as I scrabble to my feet and claw at the side of the cart while screaming. Isla comes running out of the hut, choking with sobs.

"ALIRA!" she screams, but the cart is pulling away, and I can do nothing as she falls to her knees in the grass, tears dripping to the earth like rain. I fall back with a moan, my head throbbing and my hands bleeding from clawing at the wood. There is no going back. I am trapped.

I wake up, staring at the fading light of dusk out of the cart. I moan, my head and hands throbbing. I struggle to my feet, and stumble to the side of the cart, peering out. We are travelling through a forest, along a winding road. I am confused for a second, then everything comes rushing back. The soldiers coming to arrest me, hurting Mother and forcing me away. I hold in my sobs, and gaze around at my prison.

I must escape! I must go back and help Mother and Isla and Hallie! They won't survive without me! I shudder at the thought, then slide the chopping knife out of my tunic. It's better than nothing, even though it is slightly blunt. I gaze at the rope around my hands, knowing I will have to get it off to escape. I use my knife to saw away at the bonds, until finally I cut through them.

I flex my hands, staring at the rope of redness around my wrists. Now I need to get out of the cart. I hurry to the side of it, peering over the edge. It is quite a way to the ground, but not enough to injure me, just cause a few bruises. I test my arms, checking if they can hold any weight. They seem to still be strong, even after I hit my head. I blink a few times to clear my vision, take a run up, then race at the edge of the cart and hoist myself over, scraping my skin on the wood and getting a few splinters.

I drop over the side of the cart, letting out an accidental shriek as I thump to the ground, one of my legs sending pain shooting up my back. I scramble to my feet as the soldiers stop the cart, shouting at each other. The smaller guard leaps out of the front, letting out a sound of surprise as he sees me racing away as fast as I can, which isn't very fast at all. He shouts something to the other soldier that I can't hear, then I reach the forest and dive into the undergrowth, trampling plants beneath me.

My breath comes in fast pants as I struggle through the thick forest, my ankles and hair snagging in vines and thorns. I hear the sounds of pursuit behind me, as the soldiers follow my tracks on horseback. They will catch up to me soon. I speed up, but fall back even slower as my chest and head throbs with pain, and my injured leg starts to collapse beneath me. I have an idea as I run past a large tree, and when I see another good climbing tree I hurry over and hoist myself into its lower branches. My hands start to bleed again, and my leg barks with pain as it bangs against the trunk of the tree. I scramble up a few more branches, until I am hidden by the leaves.

A few seconds later the soldiers race past my tree, crashing through the bushes as fast as they can. They disappear soon. I collapse on the branch, and finally let out the sobs that had been hammering at my chest. I cry, thick sobs echoing through the branches. I sit up, peering down at my leg. It is scratched and bleeding from more than a few places, and pain still shoots up and down it. I might have broken it, and I curse my awkward landing from when I leapt out of the cart. I then feel my head, feeling the leaves and twigs lining my hair, and the throbbing lump on the top of my skull. I wince as I check my hands, oozing blood from cuts full of splinters. I gently pull the splinters out, then make sure the rest of my cuts are clear as well. I don't want them to get infected. I gaze around at the forest from my perch in the tree.

First, I need to find water. Then food. I don't know how far away from my home I am. I could even be past the village! I heave a sigh, not looking forward to the journey ahead. I gingerly clamber down from my tree, leg shrieking with pain as I drop from each branch. I reach the ground, and grab a thick stick from the ground to use as a cane. Then I start to head off back the way I came.

After a while I reach the road, to see the cart still standing there, waiting for the soldiers to return. I wonder if they are lost as I turn and start to trudge slowly along the road back the way I was brought. Suddenly the soldiers burst from the trees with a yell, racing fast. I let out a cry and dash for the bush, but the smaller soldier spots me and races towards me triumphantly. I throw myself at the forest, but he is upon me, and I scream as his horse tramples on my already injured leg, agony causing me to writhe on the ground.

The soldier drops to the ground and heaves me behind him as he drags me back to the cart and throws me back in, this time tying my hands and feet and taking away my knife. The larger guard nods at him approvingly. I struggle to breathe, to blink, to do anything as the pain floods my body, as I stare at my crushed and mangled leg. Then the soldier shoves me into the corner, and I black out.

* * *

I wake up, then scream as agony races down my spine. I collapse back again.

* * *

I continue to wake and drift in between consciousness and darkness as we travel throughout the night, passing through towns and villages and farms. I wake up once more as the cart arrives at a bustling city: the capital. It trundles through the streets lined with stalls and shops, sellers shouting out their wares as we pass.

We finally reach the palace, a glittering tower of gold. But no, we turn away and stop outside an old shed at the back of the palace. I am shoved out, and I let out a cry as my mangled leg thuds against the hard earth. The soldiers drag me towards the forbidding western part of the palace, the dungeons. I scream, struggling against their tight hold on my bound arms. I can't go down there, I can't! I'll rot away forever, never again seeing the forest and the animals and my family. I scream again, and throw myself at the guards, clawing at their faces and arms until one of them drops me. I kick and slap and slice, impossible to hold onto. 3 more guards rush to try and contain me, and I am crying desperately

"I didn't do it! I swear! Let me go!" One of them strikes my crushed leg and I wail in agony, my vision blacking out for a moment. But then I am up again and still fighting. I scream,

"I've never even met the prince!" I feel an intense burst of pain in my head as one of the guards strikes my temple with the pommel of his sword. I black out.

* * *

I wake up in a damp, dark cell, and I know that I am in the dungeons. I hold in my sobs and pretend to still be asleep, feeling blood coating my entire body. Surprisingly, I feel no pain. I must be numb. I gingerly sit up, prodding my leg timidly. No pain resonates within me. I swallow, then gaze around at my surroundings. I am in a small cell, with nothing in it except mould and dripping water. Suddenly, my eyes catch on a figure in the corner, and I freeze. I am not alone. I open my mouth to say something, anything, when the figure slumps to the side, unconscious. I crawl over to them, pull them out into the dim light, and let out a squeak when I realise who it is.

I've been thrown in prison with the prince.


	3. damien: i smile as i respire because i know they'll never win

My stolen guard’s is slightly too short for someone of my height, and while I am accustomed to heat, it’s tight in all the wrong places, so I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. My long hair has been cut short, and the cap is pulled low over my face. From my post, I can see the palace in the centre of the city. Grey as the ground beneath it and the sky above it, pale in comparison to my home in Harenae, with its bright, vibrant colours and cultures. A vague shouting from the distance brings me out of me reverie, and I realise it is time to rotate shifts. For the past few weeks since I’ve been declared ‘dead’ I’ve hidden in Rosalynn posing as a guard. It is one of the best disguises; they have access to almost everywhere, and no one pays attention to them; all the guards blending in to one faceless law enforcer.

As I walk to the gates, a higher-ranking officer beckons me over. I walk over to her, and she addresses me.

“Captain,” she gives me a nod. I nod back; knowing my rank, I am not allowed to directly speak to her unless given an opportunity.

“I hope you’re settling in well here.” The officers here think I am a transfer from Harenae. The upside about being the Prince is that I have access to special documents that I can easily forge, to make Rosalynn’s military believe I am a transfer. The downside of being the Prince is that I am always being watched, making simple task like stealing a guard’s uniform incredibly hard.

She continues, “I’d like to transfer you to a shift in the dungeons; you have worked incredibly hard in the past few weeks, and our last dungeon guard quit for retirement. This means that…” she starts to list shift times and perks, but by this time I’ve already stopped paying attention. She finishes off her speech with a quick “see you ‘round” and I leave, eager to get back to my small military-supplied apartment.

* * *

My new shift at the dungeons begin. I was given the early morning to midday slot, but I don’t mind; I naturally wake up with the sun, so getting up early isn’t a problem. Believe it or not, one of the ‘Princely skills’ I was taught was sewing, so after spending all of last night hunched over my uniforms, they now fit me. Enjoying the feeling of walking in well-fitting clothes is something I never thought I’d do, but here I am.

The dungeons, despite being over twenty feet under the ground, are warm and well lit. I have been moved to one of the higher security areas, with one guard for every other corner in the hall. As I walk around the corner to my post, I find that I am stationed directly in front of one of the cells. Inside, two figures are crumpled in the corner; a girl and a boy, roughly my age. The girl, she doesn’t hold much interest to me. Her hair is pulled into what once may have been a neat braid, but now is just a messy pile of hair. Her dark skin is a stark contrast from the paleness of the boy next to her. She looks like every other peasant child that has been jailed for the pettiest of crimes; a result of the officers flaunting their powers, and discriminating against the peasants. No, instead, it is the boy who holds my interest. His clothes are obviously well made, and he looks well-groomed; his blond hair is soft, and his hands look soft, unlike someone’s who has been working in the fields all their life. One thing that I am unsure about, however, is a cane that lies in the centre of them. I would assume it is the boy’s as most people can’t afford a proper cane, however, the state it’s in begs to differ. There is dirt covering most of the cane, and there are various large nicks and scratches all over it.

It brings a memory to the back of my mind, vague and unfamiliar, and for a second I am sure I recognise the boy. But then it is gone. I can’t really see the boy’s face; he is curled into himself, and the cell is dark.

Both the boy and the girl have multiple bruises covering their body, but mainly their arms and torso. Stupid police. The boy turns in his sleep and. Oh. He’s cute. His face, littered with freckles, is open and innocent. Rubbing his eyes, he yawns. And then he opens his eyes. They are a light blue, and remind me of the sky back home. I might be absolutely in love.

Then we lock eyes. The boy, now aware he is being watched, immediately becomes a new person. His face now haughty and cold, he stares me down. Again, that nagging memory. Then the face and memory join and I know who he is. His fine clothes, his soft hands. He is the Prince. Jacob. Oh Gods.

Prince Jacob. In the dungeons. In a cell. Beaten up. And, _and_, I might be catching feelings. I cannot even start to comprehend how this happened. His voice turns cool and charming, an easy smile on his face. “Good day, guard. Now I am quite sure this is a simple accident, and that my father_, the king, _will let me out.” The way he says those words makes me even angrier, but he continues. “Now, if you would like to let me out, that would make me much obliged.” Jacob’s face shows only the purest respect, but his eyes burn with pure malice.

_Wow. Someone’s a bit full of themselves_. “Unfortunately, _Princey_, I haven’t gotten direct authorisation from your father for your removal. So, I don’t care what you say. You can stay in this cell until you _rot_ for all I care. I’m not going to lose my job.” I cannot believe this is how he treats people below his rank. Well, people who he _thinks _are below his rank. Harenae is a larger kingdom, and it signed over a larger percentage of its army in protection against the Veteres, so technically though we are both Princes, I have a higher rank.

I remember Jacob being removed when I met him all those years ago, but I thought it was just from the isolation that he faced.

His face goes slightly pink, his eyes open and his mouth drops to the floor at someone not bending themselves backwards for his every wish. “I- you- you cannot do that!” he splutters in protest.

“In a shocking turn of events, I can. And I will.”

“When I get out of here, you are going immediately to the executioner. This is a Class A case of treason!”

I smirk at him, and the girl starts to stir. She mumbles a bit, then clears her throat, “Look, Prince Jacob, with all due respect-”

It is here I can’t help but butt in, “Just so we’re all clear here, there is no respect due.”

If looks could kill, I bet Jacob thinks I’d be dead. Not even close- he looks vaguely irritated at best. The girl almost laughs, then continues, “I understand that you probably haven’t even been down to the dungeons before, but this is how it is. The guards here are paid to ignore you. Their only job is to make sure you don’t escape.” _Damn right it is_.

“Dungeon Girl here is right, Princey. Now, go to sleep. You need the rest, and I can’t imagine actually having to talk to you for the five more hours of my shift. I’ll wake you up when food comes. Maybe.”


	4. jacob: will you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten, and the damned?

_I am not okay._

My life is falling apart. Not all at once, but slowly, one piece at a time, like the way a puzzle is fit together, the edges are built but the centre is never revealed. The most important part, the section that keeps everything together.

And then all at once, spilling out, I can’t take it anymore. The prison, this girl, the awful guard, the pain that throbs through my bones, but also my father, framing me for murder and theft. And I’m cold. So cold, especially my face, wet with tears. They drip into my hands, reflecting my face. No one will help me now.

* * *

_I’m so, so broken. _


	5. damien: and you know you're a terrible sight, but you'll be just fine

Barely awake. Gods, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. My cap is almost completely covering my face, the usually warm and mellow light now harsh and bright to my sleep deprived mind. The news of my ‘death’ was revealed last night, and the irrational fear of being found out meant I couldn’t sleep. Then, just as I did start to sleep, it was time for my shift. Obviously.

I decide I might at least try and sleep a bit in my shift. I’m a pretty light sleeper, so I don’t have to worry about missing through any drama. Unfortunately, this means that whatever noise is being made is keeping me up. That noise that sounds suspiciously like crying.

Crying. Who would be crying? Ever so still, I risk a peek from under my cap. And see Jacob crying. Is- is that real crying? His body is shaking, and he’s curled into himself. His face is shiny in firelight from tears.

The sound of heels clicking around the corner prompts him to shakily wipe his tears and hide under the blanket. The crying isn’t for show. The heels have disappeared, but still he hides. _He’s broken. He’s broken and can’t show anyone; can’t ask anyone for help._

Making a large show, I ‘wake up’, taking long enough to give Jacob time to recollect himself.

“So- Princey-” I try to make my voice sound as sleepy as I can.

“You know I hate when you call me that, right?”

“Whatever you say, Princey. Anyways, I was thinking. While I was sleeping. Thinking while sleeping. Obviously. I was thinking that _if _you could tell me why you’re in here, and if you can prove you’re innocent, _and _if you think up a decent escape plan I will _consider _helping you escape. Make sense?”

Jacob narrows his eyes, then ever so subtly nods his head at me. “What brought on this sudden change of mind?” his tone is suspicious. How do I tell him I saw him crying, without actually _telling him_ I saw him crying? And how do I tell him my empathetic, lonely, gay _asinus _gets _feelings _when people cry. Cute boys in particular. Gods this is going to be hard.

On side, I want to get out of here. I’m tired of sneaking around and pretending to be dead. And, if we manage to escape I can blackmail him into helping me get off the grid. Or, I guess, back onto it as a new person.

“Can’t I just do something out of the goodness of my heart?”

Jacob mutters, “Did _not_ think you had goodness in you. A heart, either, for that matter.” _Rude_.

“I heard that, and you’re currently dropping my level of willingness to help. Just saying.”

“So apparently you are the one thrown in prison with a peasant, who has been beaten half to death? No, you are not. Just let us out, and we will not bother you any further. Or are you too unwilling to help?”

“Oh, Princey, no. You’ve misunderstood me. _I _am going to help _you _escape, and in _return _you’re going to help me. Understand? Now, _you’re _going to tell _me _why you’re in here, and _you’re _going to prove you’re innocent, and then _you’re _going to think up a decent escape plan, while _I _listen. Then I will _consider _helping you escape.” I swear my voice is my I’m-talking-to-a-two-year-old-right-now tone, I’m having to explain this so much.

“I have an idea.” The girl has dragged herself into a sitting position, but she is swaying from side to side. “But let me tell you how we are innocent. Before-before I pass out.” She rubs at her eyes gingerly.

“Be my guest.” I’ll admit I’m rather curious as to what the Prince of Rosalynn is doing in a cell.

“First of all, I’ve never met this guy. Supposedly, I stole some really powerful magic thing and murdered a person with this Prince over here, so we’ve both been convicted of theft, treason and muder. But I haven’t been out of my home for a while, with my sisters and mother to look after. Secondly, I don’t even know where this relic is kept. I have been in the palace once, which is today.”

Princey adds to her story. “-And, I can barely walk now, let alone into a vault.”

“Uh, yeah, and how would we have broken in? Guards are everywhere, during the night I am paranoid my mother might _die.”_

I nod my head. They both make a convincing point. “So yes, that ma- wait. Hold on. Did you say you murdered someone?”

“Do you want money? Power? I do not know what people like you want these days.” _People like you? The backbone in him-_

“No, I don’t want money or power. We’ll discuss what I want when I get you out of here. Right now, we’re focusing on the murder part. Explain.”

Jacob snaps at me. “How do you know that once you let us out we will not leave you?”

“If you leave me once you’re out of here, your loss. But again, Princey, getting off topic. Tell. Me. About. The. Murder.”

“The specific details are none of your business. The body had been stabbed, burned and drowned. Apparently, we murdered them. Me, a cripple, and peasant girl, who has a family to take care of or whatever.”

That is a fair point. And the girl mentioned treason earlier, in relation to the murder. Which, if it means what I think it means, I’ll end up feeling rather guilty for a while. On the other hand, I can play ignorance if it comes down to it, if they technically never told me.

“Ok, you know what? I’ll let it slide for now. But you gotta spill when we’re out.”

Honestly, I’m kind of tired of arguing, and the girl seems smart enough. I want to hear her plan.

“So, now, tell me what your plan is for escaping.”

It is here the girl speaks up. “Ok- our plan. Well, my plan. What I was thinking was you could steal uniforms for the both of us, then we sneak out. We can leave some blankets to make it look like we’re sleeping.”

“I’ll see- that’s a lot of work for me, and I have a limited time frame…”

“A limited time-frame? What do you mean?” Both the girl and Jacob speak at the same time. Jacob continues on for the both of them, “Why would there be a limited time frame?”

“Your trial. It’s in a few days, so I’d obviously have to get everything before then…”

“We- we have a trial?”

“Considering the fact that you allegedly stole this, quote unquote, ‘really powerful magic thing’ and killed someone, placing you firmly in the ‘criminal’ category. I would have assumed that was common sense, that the criminals get trials, but it seems I have overestimated the baseline of intelligence here. I’ll be considerate of that in the future.”

A pause, and I can see Jacob starting to understand the gravity of the situation. Either that, or I’ve managed to actually render dear old Princey speechless from rage.

“You’re going to be executed anyway, but without a trial people would riot.”

“Executed?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” Jacob mocks.

“Am I the one in a prison cell?”

“Gods, I wish.”

The girl just looks uncomfortable.

* * *

Sneaking around the castle is harder than I expected. The layout is unfamiliar, and each corridor looks like the last. But, with the help of confidence and a few questions, I manage to get to the supplies room. Earlier, I had done a quick measurement of the girl and Jacob, so now I immediately make a bee-line to one of the racks that holds the correct size uniform. Piling them carefully into my bag, I survey the room.

After a quick hesitation, I grab a few packs of food, some fire starters and a second bag, which I fill with various supplies like some underclothes so we don’t freeze to death, a couple of torches, some canteens of water, a small medical kit, various drugging potions, for when we make our break, a handgun, which I stuff to the very bottom, and a new folding cane for Jacob.

I come home half walking half running, and shove the two bags under my bed. On the way, I had almost encountered three different officials, narrowly avoiding them by sprinting down corridors and into rooms. On the bright side, I now know where the royal wine cellar is.

“Hey! Girl,” I’ve never felt so rude, I don’t even know her name, “I have some medication for your pain, and antiseptic. I wasn’t able to get a crutch or anything, sorry. It would have been too obvious. But, I mean, the medication is pretty strong…?”

“My name is Alira.”

“Alira, ok. Well, _Alira _can you just bear the pain a little longer while I try to help? I’m sorry…”

The cell is rather unhygienic, so the antiseptic comes in handy in cleaning the girl’s wounds. I’m able to fix up most of the injuries, save for her leg. A special salve I nicked on the way proves especially helpful on the slightly deeper scrapes. I have to feel her leg to determine which bone is broken, because she doesn't know, but it definitely puts me in a position that implies we are closer than we are.

“After a closer inspection, I have determined that only the fibula is broken, which means it will be easier to fix than if you had broken your talus.”

She stares at me, confused, “Which- which bones are the fibula and talus? Sorry, that didn’t actually make sense to me…”

“Oh- um- if you think about your leg, the long bone where your shin is, that’s the fibula. It can be fixed with a splint. If you had broken your talus, which is the kind of the socket, it’d be a lot harder to fix.” Feeling a glare driving into the back of my head, I turn around and face Jacob. “What do you want?”

“Oh, no, I was just- I was just thinking that maybe if you could shut up about your bones-”

“Actually, Alira’s bones, but go off.”

“Whatever. What I am saying is could you just hurry your _asinus _and get to fixing me up?” His impatient tone is unnecessarily rude, and I’m taken aback. The boy here is so different to the one curled up on the floor a few hours ago.

“With attitude like that, I’ll leave you in the cell to rot while Alira and I escape.”

“You would leave me here to die? I am afraid that is a terrible idea. Finding a guard and a criminal gone, there would be a manhunt. And I would tell the hunters immediately what you have done. There would be a bounty on your heads.”

“If we go with you, won’t there be a larger bounty on our heads? And, anyways, you apparently killed a prince. Why would anyone believe anything you say?”

“You think the king would release information like that, showing the peasants that the only heir is a traitor? Some of the more loyal-” at this, he glares daggers at Alira, “-peasants would riot. Other kingdoms would see that as a point of weakness and attack us.”

“I thought that-” I stumble on my words and almost say _we, _but keeping my identity hidden would be helpful for now. Better for them to believe I'm still dead. “I thought that you had an alliance with the other kingdoms.”

“Rosalynn’s alliance with the other kingdoms is shaky. A single moment of weakness, and they _will _attack.” Jacob snaps at me, his relatively calm demeanour vanishing for a moment.

“And your father only has himself to blame.” I want to shout at him, tell him to shut up, that my home isn’t like that, we wouldn’t betray allied forces like that. But as soon as I think it, I realise it’s not true. The King of Rosalynn only allies with other kingdoms to gain power, not to create a stable future. He takes, and he takes, and he takes. While it may not be honouring the alliance, betraying other kingdoms, almost all of the Royal families would turn their backs on Rosalynn in a heartbeat, if they were given the chance

“Of course. My father is a bully and a liar.” I choke back a cough of surprise. I never thought he would speak so blatantly about his father. He used to worship the King. What had happened?

I really don’t know how to respond.

“Look. I don’t know what’s going on between you and your dad, so let me just fix you up.”

He shuts up to let me help, and I savour the silence. Considering Alira is a peasant, she definitely came out with the worse treatment, so it doesn’t take as long to help Jacob, and I’m able to treat everything. Aside, of course, from his limp. Can’t fix years old injuries.

* * *

I slip out a little later, hiding under the cover of night, in the corners where the light of the lanterns doesn’t reach, and in the places even the moon doesn’t shine.


End file.
